Sunday, September 23, 2007

Eponymous

We lounge on your couch, grape-eating style, our legs intertwined, your cock lazy and curled on your stomach, one of your balls hanging between your thighs, the other stuck against your left thigh. Your stomach is hairy, soft, reddish brown. It’s flat, the result of years of agonizing denial and a certain Siddhartha masochism. Mine isn’t. It’s round and pudgy, jovial, the result of years of lazing around on couches. Doctors could cut me open and count the rings, “Ah,” they’d say to each other, “that was 2002, the year she found out she liked mayonnaise.” “It was a good year,” the other would say. You poke me in the stomach with your big toe and look me in the eye. I smile.

“Why aren’t there any good words for female masturbation?” you ask, as if it’s been my responsibility all along to create one.

“The only good one I ever heard was ‘petting the old man in the rowboat,’ but we need something shorter.”

My nipple is hard now, could tickle the bottom of your feet if you’d let it. My mouth has been opening slowly. I close it.

“Flicking’s good,” I say, because I can’t think with you doing that.

“How often do you flick, then?” you ask, releasing my nipple. You drop your foot between my side and the couch, supporting my back with it. Your toenails scratch an itch.

“It varies. About three times a week on average, but I’ve been known to let it drop to once a week.”

“My God, how do you live like that?” you ask, a twitch in your cock. I pretend not to notice.

“But I have many weeks where I must at least once a day, and some days are completely lost in self-ravaging.”

“Flicking, darling.”

“Flicking. Mostly it varies on time and opportunity. You?”

“Twice a day.”

“Standard.”

“Is it, do you think?”

“Uh-huh. But this morning…. Have you today?”

“Saving it up,” you say, casually. I smile though. You risk a glance and see it. The compliment hit. “You?”

“Saving it up.”

“Why?”

“It’s better if I haven’t in a while.”

“I’m saving because I want to coat that pretty face of yours, though.”

“Aw, that’s sweet.”

“Hopeless romantic, that’s me,” you joke, but the twitch has become something of a half-erection. “How do you do it?” you ask. We’re going down that road now.

I blush. I buy time. “Do what?”

“Flick,” you say, simply, the K sound emphasized and precise.

“I open the lips, check for wetness….”

“Show me.”

I knew this was coming, but I’m still blushing madly. This conversation is a lot like being tied down. I stare at you, all faux-shock, but you continue to calmly watch, all seriousness and scientific curiosity. My hand slides down and I throw a leg, as elegantly as I can, over the back of your couch. Your eyes drop. My finger goes in, separates the lips so you can see, so I’m exposed to you. I dip a finger, wet, and work back up. And there, less of a flick and more like a rub, I begin.

I’m watching your cock, the arc it makes over your lower abdomen as it raises, unfurls, solidifies. It’s a perfect fit for my mouth and I think about that as I rub myself, what that tastes like, what it feels like to flatten your veins under my lips, making you lose yourself finally, making you unleash, grasping my shoulder as you explode. It works well, my hand coated now. My eyes open again and you’re breathing deeply, an open look in your face and your cock hovering over your lower body, finding no friction in the air. Your hands, however, lay calmly on your chest and between the couch and its cushions. I’m going in then. You can’t expect me to stay here.

I draw my legs back, lean forward, roll onto my knees, and handless, pull your cock into my mouth with a hooked tongue. The rounded tip, the nose of a rocket, all swollen and spongy in the skin. Farther, my lips sliding over the tip, like making my way over the points of an arrow, headed for the shaft, and the skin here is softer, looser. It’s been years since I’ve had an uncut one in my mouth. I play with it for awhile, move the skin around with the tip of my tongue, then try to hold the slack with it, moving back and forth along the skin with my lips. My fingers slip easily over my clit, the angle allowing a free flow of slick wetness to my fingers. Now, farther down on your cock, the lips scouting before they pull you in, my tongue welcoming you, warming you, teasing you and tasting you. And my fingers find a new high, and my back arches for a moment. I snap them off of me for a moment, grab your balls instead, cradle them, pull them a little in their tight suede bag. Then, my fingers still a little wet, now receiving a bit of the saliva that drips from my mouth, I go behind your balls, massage you there firmly.

You jump a little as I find a rhythm, matching the swing of my fingers to the one in my neck. I want to ask you what you want, but my mouth is full.

“Go back to yourself,” you say. “Get flicking, girl.”

So I let your cock down slowly, push off your knees and sit back, my legs splaying even less elegantly than before. And there, the fingers of my left hand spread my lips in a V shape, my clit left out there, a helpless little thing to be battered, hard like a cherry and soaking in its own brandy. The other hand reaches and batters it, pushes harder into the side, and I can feel it throb, my mind singularizing on this spot, clit, clit, clit. You’ve started to stroke yourself, and your lips pull. Your eyes close for a moment and you have a half swoon. So do I. You sit up, crawl to me on your knees, and whimper. Come squirts before you’re ready, swipes my breasts, my stomach, my clit. I rub it in there and lose you and the world for a moment, crash inside, lose thought and self. There is you and there is peace and there is joy and then, then, then, there is breath again.

“You know,” you say, falling back to your side of the couch, “when I was watching you….”

“Yeah?”

“I think ‘petting the old man in the rowboat’ might be better.”

I roll some of your come in my index finger and flick it in your face.

I like flicking better than jilling, I think. I, too, love to please myself. What I love about this post is the tenderness and intimacy between the two - there is something very intimate about watching someone please himself or herself. It's a very vulnerable (yet powerful) position to be in. Thanks for sharing!

About the Site

I've been writing smutty stories and realistic romance for years and this is where it's going to be now. Some of this won't be either. Some of this will be straight, some of it will not. I'll put in tags that will let you know which each one will be. If you don't like straight sex, don't read it. If you don't like gay sex, don't read that. If you don't like sex, go here.

I hope you enjoy it. Suggestions are welcome. Criticism is alright. Childishness will be met with similar.

I'm a normal person with problem obsessions that I enjoy to the fullest. I can type, spell, mix a real martini, kick your ass at Trivial Pursuit, click my heels, and charm people way prettier than me. On the other hand, I have no idea what a gallon looks like, cannot cook, forget names, live in guilt and smoke a lot. I drink too much. Do not ask me what 6x8 is because I need a calculator. Honest, I just don't know. I'm married to a beautiful man. I've never seen The Godfather uncut and I never will, so leave me alone, okay? I freak out. There's nothing better than a cool energy drink in the morning. Bush can suck my ass. That's it.
Stalkers start here:
In Your Face